


5 Secrets About Bobby Singer

by The Black Sluggard (Hazgarn)



Category: Highlander, Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crossover, Five Things..., Gen, Horror, Hunting, Jossed, Monsters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-08-21
Updated: 2007-08-20
Packaged: 2017-10-20 10:46:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,134
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/211954
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazgarn/pseuds/The%20Black%20Sluggard
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four completely unrelated little blurbs explaining a few of Bobby's quirks. And one crossover thrown in there just for fun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Blade

Dean never questioned the presence of the old sword he'd seen hung up on the wall in Bobby's house. Or even when he'd come along on a hunt and it'd be sitting there right underneath the older hunter's rifle in the gun rack of his pick-up. Hunters needed a lot of odds and ends to do their job, from weapons of silver and bronze to items easily located in the average kitchen cupboard. Sometimes, a broad blade was more use than a hundred bullets, especially when you came up against something that needed a good dismembering before it'd rightly lie still. He'd never questioned the old man's expertise, either, his easy way in a fight.

Next to his father, Dean held Bobby up as a shining example of what a hunter should be. He could look death or worse in the face and not flinch.

He started asking questions when the first head-hunter came and he was there to see it.

After the electricity flashed over the salvage yard, blasting the scattered corpses of automobiles, bursting glass, and running through Bobby like he was a damned lightning rod, Dean helped him dispose of the headless corpse. They went in for a beer, and Bobby told him a story about a scrawny kid growing up in the old West, about Quickenings, and about the Game.


	2. History

His first salt-and-burn went down in music history.

In 1973, he'd aided in stealing the corpse of musician Gram Parsons. The subsequent cremation at Joshua Tree had to be done to appease Parson's spirit. His involvement hadn't been recorded. It was the only act that he knew of that ever garnered him any sort of fame. He would remember the event a little fondly-and with a bit of irritation-when it was later made into a film with that peckerhead kid from Jackass. Sic transit gloria.


	3. Dogs

Singer was scared to death of cats.

The most terrifying monster Bobby ever hunted was a cat. Well, an aitvaras, actually. But it looked like a cat. He'd finessed the young woman-recently moved into the home the demon had claimed as it's own-into letting him stay the night. He'd see if he could catch the trouble makers who had been breaking into her neighbors' homes and leaving their spoils on her kitchen table. Maybe then, he said, the cops would leave her alone.

He'd known, of course, that the cat was to blame.

It was a long wait until midnight, and the damned thing sat on the table in the kitchen, smirking the kind of evil smile only cats could. And he'd had no choice but to sit in the chair beside it, feet crossed under the table, meeting the creature minute for minute with a death glare of his own.

And it wasn't until midnight he was able to get the thing outside. It changed into it's true form: A serpent-like creature whose face still managed a cat's arrogance and whose claws were razor sharp. A toss of salt across the threshold kept it from reentering the home, which made it spitting mad. Bobby spent the better part of the next hour trying to recite an exorcism from under his truck, it's armed paws raking at him, slashing tires and snatching at his clothes before he banished it back to hell for good.

He'd always kept dogs after that.


	4. Hat

On the worst hunt Bobby ever went on, the prey was one of their own. He'd heard this and that about a young hunter in California, about Sam's age, who fought the good fight for right and for revenge. He'd heard good things, for the most part, and the kid had showed a lot of promise.

But the kid was a drinker, and he'd let the bottle and his grief get in the way of the job, and it was Bobby who ended up cleaning up the mess.

After Bobby destroyed the black altar, and the necromancer-some punk kid, really, dressed in too much black-was torn apart by his own puppets the revenant of the young hunter held on for a few moments.

What business he had left wasn't much: a message to his folks saying he was sorry, and saint's medal he wanted to go to his cousin, Jeanie. And as life drained out of his already lifeless corpse, he gave Bobby his hat. He guessed it was some way of saying thank you.

He hadn't enjoyed bringing home the news to the kid's family, or the tears on his cousin's face, but he respected the younger man's gratitude. It was what all hunters secretly prayed for against the time some hunt went bad.

He still wore the hat.


	5. Hunt

The name Nicodemus meant nothing to Sam, but he hadn't expected the look of anguish that washed Bobby's face when he was asked. Or the fierce rage that lit in his eyes. Sam had been reading a document on demons when he'd come across the name.

Dean and Bobby had gotten drunk once or twice since the business in June. Sam, for his part, was usually too busy pouring through the older hunter's library for anything that might save his brother and did not get involved. They never got off bad enough to start any trouble, it wasn't Singer's style.

So the incident that followed the next night caught Sam completely off guard.

Bobby had come in, stumbling, growling, grumbling to himself. He'd knocked several crumbling papers off a table's edge as he passed that he'd been nervous just to have Sam breathing on. When Sam had reached out a hand to steady him, the older hunter's fist came swinging toward his face. If he'd been sober, it was anybody's guess whose reflexes would have won out. But he wasn't, and the momentum dropped the older man to his knees.

It was a very different possession than what Sam was used to. With a firmer grip on Bobby's arm, he lead him to bed.

Sam was helping him off with his jacket when he saw it.

The burn was old, faded, a pale knot of raised tissue. It nestled in his flesh about three inches above the bend of the elbow, just on the inside of the older hunter's upper arm. It was different from the one Sam had seen, the one he still bore on his own arm, but he still knew it for what it was.

A binding link.

And maybe it explained a bit of Bobby's expertise with demons. It would certainly account for his zeal. And his pain regarding Dean's fate. The next morning, Sam said nothing. He asked no more questions. He didn't know if he ever would. Having once felt the weight of evil repress his will and make him a puppet, he understood.

Some secrets were too painful.


End file.
